


King of the Antlered Throne

by jaydee09



Series: Two Kings [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Dubcon Kissing and Touching, Erebor, Film/Book/Trailers, Hurt/Eventual Comfort, Love or Lust?, M/M, Mirkwood, Rejection, Revenge, Romance, Thranduil is Smitten
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-11
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-29 03:27:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1000325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaydee09/pseuds/jaydee09
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With his wife dead and his son, Legolas, distancing himself, Thranduil is alone and longs for physical contact.  He finds it where he least expects it.  So, when the dragon comes, why does he refuse to help the one he loves?  And will his revenge turn to ashes in his mouth?  </p><p>Follow-up stories: King of the Marble Halls, Kings of the Forest and Mountain, The Kings and the Elf Lord and Others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Saraleee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saraleee/gifts).



> This story is a patchwork, put together from bits and pieces gleaned from the book, the film and the trailers. The trailers can be misleading and my assumptions and conclusions might not be the right ones. Ah, well. We'll all find out this Xmas.
> 
> Initially, the first chapter was meant to be a one-off but it has continued and is now complete.
> 
> This has no connection with my other story, All About Thorin.
> 
> Follow-up stories, King of the Marble Halls and Kings of the Forest and Mountain, now posted!

King of the Antlered Throne

When Thranduil first saw Thorin, Prince of Erebor, it was not on the best of days. He had just received news that his wife was dead, for a start, and, although they had been separated for many years, it was still a shock and memories of their earlier and happier life together were crowding his thoughts.

And, secondly, he saw him in the magnificent hall of Erebor, a place to which he had come very, very reluctantly and where Thror, King under the Mountain, and his son, Thrain, lorded it over him in the arrogance of their power.

He was expected to go there and pay homage to them every twenty years or so and he had to steel himself each time the moment came. And, he had to do it – there was no way out. The dwarves of Erebor were so rich and powerful that, however much he loathed them, he was obliged to bend his knee. Or, at least give them a small obeisance of the head. Thror would grin in that irritating, superior way of his whenever he saw his stiff-necked acknowledgement, returning that slight inclination with a gracious nod that signified an overlord in the presence of a vassal. It made the elven king’s blood boil.

But, today was different. Today, Thror’s grandson, Thorin, stood by the great throne which had the Arkenstone, dwarven symbol of the king’s right to rule, buried in a recess above Thror’s head. At first, Thranduil didn’t notice him because all his concentration was bent on his reluctant show of respect, as he calculated, to the minutest degree, the smallest gesture that he could get away with before he caused offence. 

He thought he had managed it to a nicety; then, as he raised his eyes to Thror, the king gestured to a figure standing in the shadows: “My grandson, Thorin,” he said.

Another dwarf in the line of Durin, he had thought. Was there no end to them? But he would outlive them all yet. And he turned his bored gaze towards the king’s grandson, as the prince stepped out of the shadow.

Thranduil always had strict control over his icy features and he was glad of that ability when he glanced up at the prince. He wanted to gawp because, just where he expected to find it least, here was a thing of beauty. He had known both Thror and Thrain in their youth and their features had been no more than pleasant – for dwarves. But, here they had forged a masterpiece, handing down to the prince all the best aspects of their race.

Thorin’s face was strong and noble, the dwarven power softened by the beautiful lips and the mass of black hair that hung in long, dark curls part-way down his back. Thranduil had the most stupid urge to reach out and touch it. And those lips were framed by an elegant beard whose length was bound within an ornament made of mithril; it looked so silky that the elf longed to reach for that too. Dwarven braids hung neatly before his ears which were pierced with finely-wrought rings and cuffs, while silver torcs and braceleted tattoos circled his arms. 

And, what arms! Thranduil suppressed a shudder of desire. Those muscles: far more powerful than anything on the lithe arms of an elf. And he briefly wondered what it must feel like to be crushed by those arms against that broad and muscular chest. The prince stood with his legs apart, strong and sturdy as an oak. The elven king momentarily studied those powerful limbs, thrust into a pair of well-made leather boots and then he looked back up to the prince’s face again and their eyes met.

Thranduil would never forget that moment when he looked into Thorin’s eyes for the first time. His own were pale blue like a spring sky after rain, but Thorin’s were the deepest blue he had ever seen on any dwarf, elf or man. And his gaze was so piercing, so speaking. He was laughing at him: he could see that. But he didn’t care. As long as the prince still bent his gaze upon him, he was content.

Thorin gave him a curt nod. Then he turned away and Thranduil felt bereft.

“My servants will show you and your retainers to your rooms,” said Thror graciously. And his voice seemed to come from very far away. Thranduil bowed his thanks and then he followed a servant to a fine room, cut from the living rock and lined with marble of exquisite patterns and hues. And there he was left for some hours to his own thoughts.

.o00o.

His first thoughts were not about Thorin – he was not ready to go there yet – but about his wife. How he had loved her when they had first met! But, he was one of the Sindar and she was of the Noldor. “You will never be happy together,” his father, Oropher, had said. And he had kept them apart. It wasn’t until, centuries later, when Oropher had died at the battle of the Last Alliance, that Thranduil had finally married what he supposed was his one, true love.

But, his father had been right: it hadn’t worked. She had hated his Sylvan kingdom – so dreary and unsophisticated, she had thought. And, after Legolas had been born, she was forever taking him off on extended visits to her own people. It had been then that Thranduil had drifted apart from his own son. Legolas had been greatly influenced by his mother and his Noldor kin and the thoughts and attitudes of the prince seemed different from those of his father.

When together, he and his wife had argued frequently. At last, sinking into a lassitude, she had abandoned both Thranduil and his son, and had returned permanently to her kin. She intended eventually to take ship from the Grey Havens to Valinor where her mind could be healed; but, she had died before that could happen. When the news arrived, Legolas had turned away from him in his grief; somehow, his father was to blame.

Throughout his upbringing, Thranduil had been told that elves love only once. And, he had believed it. He had loved his wife – the only woman he had ever bedded – and her rejection of him had left a lasting and painful scar. After she left, he had felt the loneliness of a single life. His son kept a certain distance and he missed physical contact – the hugs and the kisses and the intimacies – that came with a marriage and a family.

And yet, no other elf woman at his court attracted him – nor did any elf lord, for that matter. But now……..and his mind crept tentatively towards forbidden thoughts……… but now he had seen Thorin. 

Immediately, he assured himself that this was not love but lust and, therefore, somehow permitted. And it was a base lust for a dwarf. And, for some strange reason, that made it acceptable too. If at all possible, he would vent this lust, here in this appalling, barbaric dwarven kingdom, and then he would return to the elegancies of his elven court and forget all about it. 

Any unease about this unexpected attraction was pushed to one side, and he set about planning for the evening.

.o00o.

A great banquet had been set out to impress the elven guests. Thror sat at one end of a vast table with the elven king whilst Thrain and Thorin sat at the other. Thranduil glanced as surreptitiously as he could down to the prince at the far end and then found it difficult to tear his eyes away. Thorin was dressed in rich blue velvets and silks and sparkling rings were on his fingers, visible even at such a distance. Thranduil listened with one ear to his host and somehow got through the evening. The highlight for him was when Thorin was asked to play the harp and sing because then it was only natural that he should turn his eyes upon him and let them rest there at his leisure.

Like his face and form, Thorin’s voice was surprisingly beautiful and the rich, deep voice washed over him in a sensuous wave.

“And what do you think of my grandson?” asked Thror proudly.

To this, Thranduil was able to answer sincerely: “He is a jewel among dwarves.”

Thror was pleased with the jewel metaphor and gave a self-satisfied nod. Then came the only enjoyable part of the elf’s conversation with the dwarven king as Thror rattled on at length about the abilities, the skills, the qualities and the talents of his grandson. And Thranduil listened and drank in the praises of the one he lusted after.

.o00o.

When Thorin had finished singing and had returned to his seat, Balin, his friend and counsellor, followed after and sat down next to him. “The elven king looks at you,” he said quietly in the prince’s ear.

“Let him look,” said Thorin with an amused twist to his lip. “Looking is free.”

“Thranduil is a king who is used to getting what he wants,” Balin continued. “If he is thwarted, he could cause trouble.”

Thorin shrugged. “What trouble can he cause within these walls?” he asked dismissively.

His friend tutted at him impatiently, which caused Thorin to smile. “You are young,” he murmured, “and not fully conversant with the ways of kings. I am just asking you to take care and to let me set a guard upon your door.” And he nodded across the table to the mighty Dwalin who was observing their conversation closely.

Thorin laughed. His two friends and brothers-in-arms never let him take a step without following a pace behind. “No,” he said firmly. “I can look after myself. Let me deal with this in my own way.”

Balin shook his head and Dwalin glared across at him, but, soon after that, Thorin went off on his own to his room. Once there, he removed the silver and the mithril from his fingers, his beard and his hair and shook loose his heavy mane. Then he changed from his fine court robes into a silken sleeping gown and lay upon his bed to think. The dwarves, like the elves, believed in chastity and, since there were few dwarven women, this wasn’t too difficult to achieve. Thorin, as a prince of Erebor, was lucky that a bride would be chosen for him from amongst the few and he awaited that day with a dwarven stoicism. 

He had asked Dwalin once, long ago, as he had reached maturity, what he should do if beset by lustful thoughts. “Hammer them away on the anvil, lad!” he had advised. And the advice was good. He channelled his craving for a woman’s body into creating beautiful things in the great forges of Erebor. This guaranteed that he would return exhausted to his bed.

But now – and he almost laughed out loud at the thought – he had become an object of lust. For an elf! He had dismissed Thranduil’s looks at first until he could dismiss them no more. And then Balin had confirmed them. What would he do if he was subjected to the elven king’s advances? Thorin was aware that he was clever and able and quick-witted but he was an innocent in the ways of love. Balin and Dwalin knew this which is why they had moved so hastily and with such concern to close ranks around him. But he was tired of being wet-nursed and it would be a challenge to handle this on his own.

He conjured up the elf’s icily beautiful face, its features immobile and bereft of emotion. Could he take such a one in his arms? Would it be pleasurable to kiss him? Thorin imagined the scenario and wondered what his reaction would be. If he were curious enough to indulge in the pleasures of the flesh before marriage, then this somehow seemed a way around the strict dwarven code. He turned it over in his mind but, in the end, rejected it. And so, he thought he was ready when a knock came on his door.

.o00o.

Thranduil had questioned the servant who escorted him back to his room, asking admiringly about the design and the lay-out of the great palace. By the time he was at his own door, he had a good idea as to the whereabouts of Thorin’s room. Like Thorin, he changed into something more casual and then he sauntered out of his room and down the corridor.

His interest in Thorin had been mounting as the evening progressed and now the years and years of loneliness, without touching or being touched, were coming to a head and all he could think of was the dwarf’s hair and his lips and his skin and his eyes. He just wanted to lay his hands upon his body and feel the dwarf’s hands upon his own.

When he reached Thorin’s door, he waited for a few moments outside with his eyes closed and then he took a deep breath and knocked.

.o00o.

The dwarf opened the door without any indication of interest or welcome. “May I come in?” Thranduil eventually asked.

Thorin stepped back grudgingly but let him in with a nod. 

The prince of Erebor was wearing a sleeveless silken robe in his favourite blue. The neck was a deep V and Thranduil felt a little frisson as he caught a glimpse of chest hair. To the smooth elves, bodily hair was an anathema but, for the first time, the elf lord could feel its attraction. As the prince led the way into his apartment, he noticed the way the soft material clung to his muscled form, outlining his powerful shoulders and the swell of his buttocks. He was also aware of those barbaric tattoos on his arms, but, instead of feeling disgust, he wondered where else he had them on his body. The king’s breathing became erratic as a thousand erotic messages seemed to be firing at him all at the same time. And things which only yesterday repulsed him suddenly became unbearably compelling.

Thorin, in his turn, studied Thranduil as he showed him to a seat. The elf king’s robe was silver and fell in elegant folds to the floor. He moved with a fascinating grace and his pale blond hair, straight and sleek and glossy, hung about his shoulders so unlike any dwarf’s that he seemed alien in his strangeness.

And Thranduil felt that strangeness – that difference – in Thorin too. And he wanted to touch it and smell it and savour it because the erotic charge emanating from Thorin, something that was intangible and yet at the same time seemed to press upon the elf like a hand at his throat, left him breathless and was becoming almost unbearable.

Thorin offered him a glass of wine which Thranduil accepted with a graceful inclination of his head. “Your singing tonight was admirable,” he said politely.

“Too kind,” said Thorin in equally polite tones.

They were sitting at a small table together, their knees almost touching. The dwarven prince raised an enquiring eyebrow as if it were time for Thranduil to justify his presence.

“My courtiers would have been most moved by your performance,” the elf lord continued, “as I was.” And he ran a slender finger around the rim of the glass that he held in his hand. 

Thorin waited.

“I don’t believe you have visited my palace in Mirkwood.” 

The dwarf acknowledged this.

“It was built by dwarven craftsmen,” said Thranduil, “and is a great wonder. Perhaps you would like to see it……and then you could display your singing skills to my retainers. It would please me very much to have you as my guest.”

“That is very gracious of you,” replied Thorin and then added evasively: “I will discuss this with my grandfather.”

The elven king leaned closer and placed a hand lightly on Thorin’s thigh. “You could travel with my company when we set out tomorrow,” he suggested smoothly. “The delights of my court are many.” And he gave the dwarf’s leg the slightest of squeezes.

Thorin smiled and then got up to refill Thranduil’s glass. The hand fell from his thigh. Seated once more, he said: “A prince has many duties.”

“But, surely,” counteracted Thranduil, “a prince also has a duty to himself? My palace would offer you many pleasures.” And he looked at Thorin over the rim of his glass, moving one knee to brush it against the dwarf’s own.

A more experienced Thorin would have stood and graciously shown Thranduil the door, offering to let the elven king know his decision on the following day. But, this Thorin was amused and decided to play the game. He looked back at Thranduil across the rim of his own glass, saying: “And tell me of the pleasures to be found there which cannot be found in Erebor?”

Thranduil smiled to himself and decided that he was making some progress with his seduction. The prince had not moved his leg away and had, in fact, leaned in closer and was holding the elf’s gaze with his own. “There are pleasures of the senses which are particular to us,” he said. “Would you like to know more?” And he knew that he was pressing the dwarf but his heart beat fast with a desire that he could not contain.

Thorin raised a curious eyebrow. “Tell me,” he said.

“Better to show you,” said the elven king. And before Thorin had time to react or consider the folly of his words, Thranduil had carefully placed his glass back on the table, and, sliding a hand expertly around the back of the dwarf’s neck, he pulled Thorin to him and kissed him on those beautiful lips. They were soft and yielding and Thranduil sighed with longing as his need, suppressed for so many years, overwhelmed him. His other hand came up to seize the dwarf by the chin; then, as that hand ran down the silken beard, and his tongue explored the prince’s mouth which still tasted of wine, it slipped inside the gown and his palm lightly caressed the sprinkling of hair that it found there.

Thranduil was swooning with the sensuous pleasure of this contact and so it came as an unexpected shock when the dwarf leaped to his feet and pushed him violently away so that he almost fell. “I want none of the vile pleasures of the elves, if that is what they are,” snarled Thorin. “Your touch repulses me,” he said. And then he did what he should have done five minutes before, which was to stride across the room, open the door and bid the elf take his leave.

Hurt, angry and humiliated, the elven king made a dazed exit from the room. He had been given offence and, one day, Thorin would suffer for this. And he strode back to his own apartments in a fury; and yet, all the while, his body and his heart yearned for the one who had rejected him.

.o00o.

Thranduil had brought a large contingent of armed men with him as an expression of his status and his power – larger, indeed, than the dwarven army that guarded Erebor. But, he and they were gone early the next morning and Thror wondered at their abrupt departure. They were gone so quickly, that they had travelled some distance before the dragon came to the Mountain.

Balin was questioning Thorin upon the palace battlements moments before Smaug’s advent. He was shaking his head despondently. “I tried to warn you,” he said. “One day, Thranduil will have his revenge.” Thorin still remembered the elven king’s lips upon his own, the sensation of his hand caressing his breast and his anger with himself at his own unexpected feelings of arousal. And then the dragon swept over Dale and Erebor and all was flame and fury. 

As the stunned refugees poured out of the front gate, Thorin, supporting his father, Thrain, looked up to see Thranduil with his army looking down at them from the high cliffs. For a moment, his heart lifted. The elves - led by the one who had expressed desire for him - had come to their rescue. And he raised one arm in a desperate plea to him. But, Thranduil, lord of Mirkwood, king of the antlered throne, looked down coldly and his heart was not moved. Then he and his army turned away.

“He has taken his revenge,” murmured Balin.

But Thorin never forgave and never forgot.

.o00o.

Sixty years later, Thranduil sat upon his antlered throne. Not a day had gone by in all that time that he did not think of Thorin, prince of Erebor. He remembered the brief but darkly intense satisfaction he had felt when he had turned his back on him. Let them all die, he had thought. Let Thorin die. He deserved it. And the pain of the dwarf’s rejection stayed with him for a long time afterwards.

And perhaps the prince had died but, at last, the satisfaction slowly faded and the thought of all that beauty turned to dust because of the elven king’s damaged pride became a bitter burden to him. And Thranduil shut himself away in Mirkwood and refused to let his son or his soldiers or his retainers cross its boundaries and enter the outside world. “The outside world is no concern of ours,” he told Legolas. “Let us not get involved with their problems. We are safe within the confines of this wood.”

And, every day, he sat upon his antlered throne and thought of Thorin, prince of Erebor.

.o00o.

There was the sound of shouting and scuffling and, suddenly, Thranduil’s guard hustled a group of dwarves into the throne room. “Sire,” said his captain, “we have caught these dwarves trespassing in the forest. They refuse to explain their presence, even though we have interrogated the leader.” And he flung one of the captives at the foot of his throne.

Thranduil’s heart stilled as he saw the black-haired figure, sprawled at his feet. The dwarf slowly stood and then lifted his head arrogantly to stare him in the face. It was Thorin. And the features that haunted him constantly were now within touching distance.

The elf wore his own years lightly; but Thorin looked older: his face was sterner and there was silver in his hair. And yet, to the elf lord, he was more beautiful still.

Thranduil conquered the urge to touch that face and lounged back on his throne, his demeanour haughty and aloof. He would not let the dwarf see his pain and longing. But Thorin did nothing to conceal the hatred in his eyes.

“So,” said Thranduil. And the word hung between them.

“May I ask what you are doing in my kingdom?” And his voice was soft and threatening.

But the dwarf compressed his lips and said nothing.

“You have come,” said Thranduil, answering his own question, “to kill a dragon and reclaim a kingdom.”

Thorin’s eyes flickered slightly but still he said nothing.

Thranduil yearned to hear that beautiful, melodic voice and so he insisted: “Is that not so?”

But the dwarf remained silent.

At this, the elven king said in languid tones: “Then I shall help you.” And the dwarf looked up quickly and Thranduil found himself lost in those stunning blue eyes once more. “I shall help you,” he continued as his voice took on a cutting edge, “by saving you from yourselves.” And then he smiled and turned to his captain. “Throw them into the dungeons,” he said.

Thorin stepped forward angrily, raising his bound hands as if he would speak. But, then he turned his back on the elf lord and allowed himself to be led away.

Thranduil gestured to the captain: “Put the leader on his own at the deepest level,” he said quietly; and the captain saluted and followed the captives out of the door.

The elven king was content – more so than he had been for sixty years. He would have his heart’s desire, imprisoned and in chains. And this time, he would not be denied.

.o00o.


	2. In Chains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is my first experiment with slash and I have enjoyed it so much that I have written two more chapters so that I could bring this story to a conclusion and not just leave it to your imaginations. I have been obliged, however, to rewrite the first chapter in a VERY small way in order to give a slightly different slant to Thorin’s response to Thranduil.
> 
> Hope you enjoy reading about Thranduil and Thorin in the Mirkwood dungeons. If you do, let me know.

Chp 2: In Chains

Thranduil did not descend to his dungeons straight away to gloat over his prisoner. He understood the value of patience and apprehension – patience on his side and apprehension on the part of the dwarf. After living without the dwarf for so long, what difference did a few more days make? Even so, he found it hard and, after only two days, he set off to see the object of his desire.

He had ordered Thorin to be taken to his deepest dungeon. That sounded bad but, in fact, the lowest level of his palace was adjacent to a quay, a riverside spot where goods from Lake Town, shipped upstream on rafts, were unloaded and where the barrels of wine were stored. Light from the quay penetrated through into the prison area and it was not as dismal as one might imagine.

Thorin had been stripped to his shirt and breeches and was chained hand and foot. Again, this was not as cruel as it might sound because the elven chains were long and light and allowed a prisoner free movement around his cell. However, the chains disappeared into holes in the wall and, when a guard wished to enter in safety, he would turn a winch in the guardroom, the chains would shorten and the prisoner could be pulled tightly against the far wall. There was a bed, a table, a water jug and a certain amount of space; but that was all. Thorin was screaming with boredom, concern for his men and, as Thranduil had expected, apprehension about what the elven king had in store for him. It was almost a relief when the elf lord finally descended to his cell.

Thorin came to the bars and gripped them. “What have you done with my men?” he growled.

“He speaks!” said Thranduil. His voice was mocking but the dwarf’s deep, rich voice sent a shiver through his veins and he wished that he could lie with him, his head against that great breast and feel the vibrations throughout his whole body.

But, when the dwarf spoke no further, Thranduil parted with a scrap of information: “Your men are well looked after and are in cells on an upper level,” he said. This was the way to train a pet and call him to heel, he thought.

“Thank you,” said Thorin with a nod; and there was a spark of gratitude in his eyes.

Thranduil continued to look silently at Thorin until the dwarf finally felt obliged to speak again. “What will you do with me?”

“Do?” said the elf lord. “Why, nothing, of course. What would I do with you?”

“Then why are you here?” snapped the prince.

“I thought we could continue our aborted conversation,” replied Thranduil silkily and he went to fetch two chairs and a small table from the far side of the guard room.

“Now,” he said politely, “might I just ask you to stand up against the wall?”

Thorin didn’t move but glared stubbornly through the bars at the king.

“Or,” continued Thranduil amiably, “I could just turn the winch without your cooperation and drag you into a suitable position. Rather demeaning, don’t you think?”

The elf could see him struggling with himself and waited patiently. In the end, with a shrug, the dwarf walked to the wall and stretched his hands and feet out towards the holes. Thranduil turned the winch and soon Thorin was held tightly in a spread-eagled position against the far wall. 

Thranduil unlocked the cell door and then positioned the table and the chairs. “One more moment,” he then said, and he disappeared off into the cellar area where the wine was stored. He soon came back with two glasses and a jug of wine which he placed on the table.

Thorin watched him warily all the while and then tensed as the elf finally approached him. Thranduil stood very close and the prince felt his helplessness. The perfectly moulded lips of the king were inches from his own. “Did my soldiers hurt you in any way?” he murmured. “Do you have injuries that need attention?”

“No,” was the muttered response. And the elf lord smoothed the dwarf’s tangled hair and adjusted the collar of his crumpled, linen shirt.

“There,” he said; and the fingers of his hand lingered for a moment on the sun-burned skin at the dwarf’s neck. “The last time I saw you, you were dressed in blue silk,” he continued softly. Then he turned on his heel abruptly and went back to the winch, releasing Thorin enough so that he could sit down on the nearest chair.

Thranduil seated himself on the other chair and poured them both a glass of wine.

“Now, where were we?” he asked pleasantly. “Although, perhaps a little back-tracking might be necessary.”

Thorin glowered at him but took a sip of wine.

“Ah, yes,” continued the elf, “if I remember correctly, I believe my hand was, at some point, resting on your thigh; but, the difference this time is that I don’t think you will find it necessary to get up and pour me any more wine.” And he stretched out his hand and placed it just above Thorin’s knee.

Thranduil felt the powerful muscles clench beneath his fingers. He had dreamed repeatedly and vividly of this moment over the years and, in his dreams, his hand had slid further up Thorin’s thigh and the dwarf had smilingly covered his hand with his own. It was so real but, always, he would wake up only to find himself alone and frustrated in his own bed. This time, he would not wake up; but, this time, the dwarf didn’t smile either. He would work on that.

This time, moreover, it was not the merest suggestion of a squeeze that he gave. Instead, Thranduil gently kneaded and stroked the dwarf’s thigh, all the time silently gazing into Thorin’s blue eyes whilst the prince looked daggers back at him. It felt very good, thought the king, and he looked forward to the day when the dwarf would come willingly to his bed and he could stroke his bare skin.

Finally, he leaned back with a sigh and removed his hand. He heard the prince let out an audible gasp of relief. “You’re no fun, Thorin,” he said, smiling gently. “My wife used to love me kneading her shoulders. She found it very relaxing. Perhaps you would prefer that instead.”

“I heard your wife left you,” said Thorin spitefully.

“My wife died,” said Thranduil. “I discovered she had died on the day that I came to Erebor. I had loved her very much once and, when I saw you, I thought I could love you too.”

Thorin batted away the disturbing thought of the elf king’s love and sneered: “I thought that elves only loved once.”

“So they say,” said Thranduil. “But who knows if that is true?” Then he reached out and fingered the locks of Thorin’s hair. “She had beautiful dark hair, you know. Not as dark as yours, but relatively unusual in an elf. That’s what drew me to her in the first place.” And he ran his hand slowly down one of Thorin’s braids.

There was a pause and then Thranduil asked: “Were you never in love, Thorin? Did you never bed a dwarven woman or one of the girls from Dale?”

Thorin snorted indignantly. “Dwarves are as chaste as elves,” he said. “Perhaps more so.” And he gave Thranduil a meaningful look.

“As I said: no fun, Thorin,” the elf chuckled, but secretly he was pleased with the dwarf’s response. It gave him pleasure to know that he would be the first.

The corner of Thorin’s mouth lifted the tiniest fraction and Thranduil felt a modicum of success. “What happened to you when you left Erebor?” he asked. “Where did you go next?”

The smile faded from Thorin’s lips. “We wandered in the wilderness,” he said, “and nearly died. But you wouldn’t be interested in that, would you?”

The king gently caressed the dwarf’s muscular arm and enjoyed its rippling power. “Everything about you interests me,” he said.

The prince shrugged off the exploring hand and wondered at his own response to that feather-light touch: disgust or desire? And then he sipped from his glass once more. “We were sheltered by Dain and his kin but then we found a home of our own in the Blue Mountains of Ered Luin. I worked among Men as a smith in order to survive.”

For the first time, as he imagined this great prince of Erebor demeaning himself in the forges of Men, Thranduil felt a measure of guilt. “And now you have come to reclaim your kingdom,” he said. “And you will die in the attempt.” He placed a cool finger on Thorin’s cheek. “Stay with me,” he said huskily, “and I will adorn your body with gold and precious stones.”

But Thorin just gave him a withering look and, turning from him, refused to speak again.

Thranduil sighed. “You are foolishly stubborn,” he said as he rose from his chair. “We shall speak again tomorrow.” And he was gone.

“Phew!” said Bilbo, suddenly removing his magic ring and appearing outside the cell. “Rather you than me.” And then he giggled.

“And what are you laughing at?” growled Thorin.

“I’m imagining him adorning your body with gold and precious stones.”

“Not funny,” said the dwarf and Bilbo grew serious.

“I know it’s not,” he said. “I’ve got to get you out of here, haven’t I? And the sooner the better!”

.o00o.

Thranduil lay in bed and thought about Thorin. The dwarf was within his grasp and yet he was unsure how to make him his own. No subtle seduction now, as in Erebor: the dwarf was resisting his advances. He had tried to be more forceful today, hoping that Thorin would respond because he saw that this was one route out of his prison. But, even the lure of gold had not worked and all his attempts to woo him were being scorned.

Well, there was still one way: he could just take him. But Thranduil was reluctant. All those years ago in Erebor, he had thought that what he felt for Thorin was lust. But, the passing years had taught him differently. His desire, his longing, his feelings – all seemed to emanate from a powerful emotional core. He wanted to take Thorin in his arms and love him: he wanted his company; he wanted his conversation; he wanted to hear his voice and gently touch his hair and kiss his lips. His senses reeled when the dwarf was near and he would give anything to be in him and of him and near him for as long as the prince lived. And he was terrified that he would go off in search of the dragon and that he would die. He had thought he was dead once before and could not bear to think it again. Yes, he would keep Thorin here by force for his own safety. He would take him in his arms and never let him go.

Tomorrow, he needed to try a new approach.

.o00o.

Thorin lay in his bed too, thinking about the elven king. He was desperate to get out of Mirkwood and return to his quest again. The question was: how far was he prepared to go? Was he willing to barter himself to achieve his ends? And, even if he went to Thranduil’s bed, was that a guarantee of his freedom? Or, having satisfied his desires, would the elf just cast him back in this dungeon and forget all about him? Thorin’s head ached with thinking. He would forget about it until the morning and just hope that Bilbo came up with an escape plan.

.o00o.

The next day, an invisible Bilbo whispered through the bars of Thorin’s prison and told him about the empty wine barrels. “I’m sure the lot of us can escape downstream in them,” he said.

Thorin was scornful. “More likely we shall all drown,” he snorted.

“Then sit in your nice cosy cell until Thranduil comes to take you by force,” snapped Bilbo, and stomped upstairs to talk with the rest of the Company. 

Thranduil appeared later that afternoon. “Stand by the wall,” he ordered curtly and Thorin did as he was told. The chains were pulled tight and Thorin waited for the king to produce the chairs, the table and the wine. But he did not. Instead, he stood very close again and murmured: “I wonder how long I shall be patient, Thorin? I have waited sixty years and thought about you every day. Such is my love for you.”

“And is this how you treat the things you love?” asked Thorin contemptuously. “Do you enslave them and attempt to force them to your will?”

“If I must,” replied Thranduil dismissively. “And if it is for their own good.” The elf was standing so close that he felt he was breathing the dwarf in; he shuddered and could no longer resist. He wrapped his hand in Thorin’s long hair and, pulling his head to one side, buried his face in the dwarf’s neck with a groan. Thorin struggled but the chains restrained him. “Hush,” whispered the elven king, holding him still. “Accept my love.” And he pressed his lips with an exquisite tenderness to the dwarf’s throat.

Thorin tried not to move. He had expected violence but the elf was so gentle and his mouth brushed so delicately against his skin that it startled him. “Love me,” he murmured to Thorin, “and you shall have all you desire.” His lips and tongue softly opened Thorin’s own whilst his hand stroked and caressed his chest, gentling him as if he were a wild animal. Then his fingers undid the buttons of the dwarf’s shirt and his hand finally slipped beneath the linen and touched his skin.

The elven king moaned. How often had he thought of this? And his palm brushed over downy hair and hardening nipples and dipped lower towards the dwarf’s breeches.

For a fleeting moment, Thorin responded and his body strained towards Thranduil so that the manacles bit into his wrists. “I yield to your love,” he suddenly gasped and Thranduil’s heart leaped with joy. “But, not here, not now. Not in this dungeon and in chains. I must have the night to think – to prepare myself. And, tomorrow, you must come and fetch me to your apartments. My companions will be the hostages that ensure my good behaviour and my promises to you.”

Thranduil took the prince of Erebor in his arms and kissed him deeply. Then, with a sigh, he released him. “Until tomorrow then,” he said, as he loosened the chains and mounted the stairs to the upper halls. 

.o00o.

“Goodness!” exclaimed Bilbo as he took off his ring. “That was a close thing. Are you really going to go through with it? I suppose he does seem to love you.”

“Of course I’m not!” snapped Thorin. “You and your wretched barrels are going to get us out of here tonight!” 

.o00o.

And so, when Thranduil eagerly descended to the dungeons early the next day, he found the guard in a drunken stupor, the cell doors wide open and his prisoners fled. And the first thing that he thought was how much he loved the dwarf and that his heart had been broken yet again. And the second thing he thought was how much he hated him because he had been betrayed.

.o00o.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Third and last chapter: my take on why Thranduil gathers his army together and goes to Erebor. How will the relationship between him and Thorin eventually pan out?
> 
> I have contracted the time between the coming of Smaug and the Quest for the purposes of the story.


	3. Consummation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil heads out for Erebor and Thorin but Smaug and a battle intervene. Will Thorin survive and will Thranduil get what he wants? And on whose terms?

Consummation

Thranduil’s hatred for the dwarf lasted a mere week. During that time, he shut himself away and picked the scab of Thorin’s betrayal. But, then, his love brought forth the fear. The prince was going back to Erebor to face the dragon and the fool would be killed. He had to stop him or at least protect him and bring him back to the safety of Mirkwood.

Over the next few days, Thranduil gathered his army together. And then he set out for the Mountain. But, on the second day, a great pall of black smoke covered the sun and the elven king feared that the dragon had done its worst. And, indeed, later that morning, they were met by a rider from Lake Town. The messenger was exhausted; his clothes were singed and blackened with soot and he almost fell from his horse at Thranduil’s feet.

“Help us, great king!” he cried. “The dragon is dead, but Lake Town is destroyed and its people are injured and starving.”

And what of the dwarves, Thranduil wanted to know?

But the messenger was angry: “It was the dwarves who stirred up Smaug’s wrath. If they are dead, then they are repaid for their folly.” And Thranduil’s stony, unmoving face belied the turmoil that he felt within.

What was he to do? His foremost desire was to seek out Thorin in Erebor but he had turned his back on refugees once before and he could not do so again. For, in his mind’s eye, he saw Thorin’s unforgiving face staring angrily at him on that day that he had abandoned the dwarves to their fate. And so he took the path to Lake Town where he found total destruction and misery.

The elven army was greeted with relief and they set about distributing spare food supplies and building temporary shelters on the shores of the Long Lake. But, Thranduil found that Bard was gathering together an army too. “The dwarves must be dead,” he said, “and all their treasure lies unprotected. We need a part of it to rebuild Dale and Lake Town and the gold is due us in recompense for what we have suffered.”

And Thranduil, without revealing his love for Thorin, agreed to go with him.

.o00o.

“They’re still alive,” said Bard. And he sounded almost annoyed that this was so and that his path to the treasure was no longer an easy one. “And they have shut themselves into the Mountain, barring the way to all comers.”

Thranduil felt a surge of joy and, when Bard went to parley with the dwarves, he rode beside him. But Thorin received them both coldly. “The treasure is ours,” he said, glaring down from the battlements above the Gate. “Withdraw your armies and especially that of the elf. Then I may be prepared to discuss recompense with Bard; but I owe the elven king nothing. He has no right to any of it.” And he looked at Thranduil with contempt in his eyes.

The elf lord wanted nothing more than to ride forward and shout up to the dwarf: “I have not come for the gold but for you, Thorin Oakenshield, you whom I value more than all the dragon’s hoard.” But he knew that he could not reveal his heart thus before such a gathering of dwarves, elves and men.

“Should I withdraw?” he asked after he had returned with Bard to their encampment. 

“No,” said Bard, “because then it would look like a weakness in us.”

And Thranduil was glad that he had been given an excuse to remain.

But, his continued presence made the dwarf even angrier. “What is he doing here?” Thorin fumed to Bilbo. “He has no right even to a single golden cup.”

“Perhaps it’s because he loves you and was worried about you,” said Bilbo. But Thorin grew only angrier and would not listen. And so, the hobbit went off to find Balin.

“You should have seen the two of them together in those dungeons,” he said. “Thranduil is totally besotted and, although he might deny it, I don’t think that Thorin exactly hates Thranduil either. I bet the king was distraught when he found that Thorin had set out after the dragon.”

Balin nodded. “If it were not for Thranduil’s presence, I think that Thorin would be willing to negotiate with Bard. You know, he hated him for so long after the elf abandoned us when the dragon came. And the thing that made it worse – that made it deep and personal rather than a sensible decision made by a king and a commander – was that he thought that Thranduil had feelings for him. And I know he did. The way he looked at Thorin that night! But Thorin _would_ handle things in his own way. He rejected Thranduil and there is no fury like a king who has been scorned.” The wise old counsellor sighed.

“I didn’t know all this,” said Bilbo. “Seems to me that they need to get together to kiss and make up.” And he went back to his room and drew out the Arkenstone from where he had hidden it in his knapsack. He had found it accidentally amidst all that gold and it was so beautiful that he couldn’t bear to give it up. Not yet, anyway. But, now he could use it in a good cause, perhaps.

The arguments between man, dwarf and elf became more vicious as the winter days advanced. And, finally, when news of an approaching dwarven army came to everyone’s ears, there seemed to Bilbo to be only one way to stop a fight and he slipped out of Erebor and approached the tents of the elves and men.

The guard found him and escorted him to Thranduil and Bard. The Bowman recognised him and asked why he had come. Then Bilbo drew forth the Arkenstone and they gazed at it in awe and wonder. “Why have you brought this to us?” asked Bard suspiciously.

Bilbo offered it to Thranduil. “Take this to Thorin,” he said, “because it is really important to him. When he sees you have it, he will let you into Erebor and then, perhaps, when you are alone together…” And he shrugged.

But, Bard took it from their hands. “This is an invaluable bargaining tool,” he said, “and should not be used lightly.”

And when he saw that Bard meant to use it for his own purposes, Bilbo went sadly back to the Mountain. Thranduil followed him out of the tent. “You’d be better staying with us, Mr Baggins,” he said. “I have known Thorin’s anger these sixty years and he may be dangerous if he finds out you have betrayed him.”

“No,” said Bilbo stoutly. “I belong in that mountain with my friends.” And then he placed a hand gently on Thranduil’s arm: “I know that you love him,” he said, “and are not here for the gold. I hope that Thorin realises that in the end.” And the elf gave the hobbit a courteous bow.

.o00o.

It was all disastrous. Thorin nearly killed Bilbo and threw him out of Erebor. Dain’s dwarf army arrived and elves, dwarves and men squared up to each other, ready to do battle. A vast host of orcs and wargs, also seeking the treasure, suddenly appeared and threatened to overwhelm everyone and the bodies piled up in obscene numbers. A battered and bloody Thranduil galloped up to the Gates of Erebor and the elven king shouted up to Thorin whom he could see watching the fray from the battlements.

“Come down and help us!” he yelled. “If not for me, then for your fellow dwarves.” Thorin looked at him for a moment and then turned back into the Mountain.

Thranduil slumped in his saddle. He had refused to come. But, as he slowly urged his horse back into the battle, he heard a thunderous noise behind him as the stone walls that had been erected to block the gate were pushed down and Thorin and his Company emerged in their war gear, clad in the finest armour from the hoard. 

Thorin looked magnificent, arrayed all in shining gold; and, as he swung his axe and sword, the light of battle shone in his eyes. He grinned at Thranduil as he and his men surged past. The elven king grinned too and then positioned himself so that he was guarding Thorin’s back.

But he was not prepared for the recklessness of the dwarf in battle. Over-confident in his own skills, he plunged into every place where the fighting was thickest and his Company followed after until they had driven a wedge through the enemy. Thorin was triumphant as the orcs gave way before him. But, his arrogance took him too far and, gradually, the wargs and orcs closed in behind him until they had separated him from his friends. In the end, Thorin stood alone in a circle of orcs and found himself facing their leader, Azog, the orc who had beheaded Thorin’s grandfather and pursued him across Middle-earth. “Stand back!” snarled Azog to his minions. “He is mine!” 

They faced each other for one last, desperate encounter and the giant Gundabad orc towered above the dwarf. Frantically, Thranduil was forcing his horse through the fray, cutting and slashing at those who tried to pull him from his saddle. He had nearly reached Thorin when the dwarf delivered Azog a death blow with his axe; but Azog’s bodyguard threw themselves upon him with a howl of rage and he fell before the weight of their attack.

There was a moment of agony when Thranduil saw the dwarf go down and he thought that he must be dead; but there was a great roar and Beorn, in his bear form, appeared, casting the bodies of orcs in the air like chaff. Then the shape-shifter reached Thorin’s prone form and gently he lifted him and carried him to safety on the fringes of the battle. Thranduil followed after and, leaping from his horse, he clasped Thorin in his arms and Beorn, leaving the dwarf in his care, plunged back into the battle. 

.o00o.

Some hours later, the battle was over and the enemy had been thoroughly routed. On the plain outside Erebor, tents had been set up to treat the badly injured. Bilbo and Thranduil sat either side of Thorin’s bed as he lay unconscious and swathed in bandages. Thranduil held one of his hands and Bilbo was blinking away his tears. “Thought we had lost him there,” he gulped.

“I couldn’t help him,” whispered the elf lord. “I couldn’t get to him.”

“You love him a lot, don’t you?” said the hobbit.

Thranduil looked up. “I have told you,” he replied.

“Love’s about more than holding hands, you know,” went on Bilbo severely, nodding down at the elf lord’s fingers entwined in those of the dwarf.

“So, what else do you suggest I do?” asked the elven king.

“Love’s about giving, but all I’ve seen you do is take,” said Bilbo.

“And when have you ever seen me with him, I’d like to know, Master Hobbit, that you can pass judgement on our relationship?” asked Thranduil sharply.

“Ah, you’d be surprised,” said Bilbo. And then he got up from his chair and added: “Just look after him.”

And so Thranduil did.

.o00o.

At various moments of consciousness, Thorin would open his eyes to find the king changing his bandages or cleaning up some stinking, putrefying wound, or gently washing the filth from his body, or combing out the snags from his long hair or holding a cup to his lips or feeding him carefully with a spoon or mopping his fevered brow. He was aware of various other faces coming and going, looming into his vision and then disappearing again. But Thranduil was always there.

Yet the strange thing was, although the elf touched every intimate part of his body, he did it with a cool distance and not once did Thorin feel under threat from him. He never fussed but acted efficiently and ably until Thorin turned a corner and full consciousness was restored to him. He was very weak and the king still did everything for him, lifting him and rolling him so that he could change his stained sheets and propping him up on pillows to help him eat and drink.

Thranduil found a harp from the hoard in Erebor and some evenings he would sing to the dwarf to help him sleep. “I’m counting the number of songs,” he smiled. “And when you are well, I expect to be recompensed.”

They talked together quietly about the battle and about other battles they had fought down the years.

And they wept together for the dead.

Thorin asked Thranduil about his wife and he told him the whole sorry story. “You waited for her for such a long time. It’s a shame that you weren’t happy together,” sighed Thorin.

“We thought we loved each other,” said Thranduil, “but we didn’t love each other enough. In fact, I don’t think we loved each other at all – it was just a case of infatuation followed by thwarted desire because we had been kept apart.”

“But how do you know that you didn’t love her?” asked Thorin drowsily. They had talked for a long time, late into the night.

“Because now I know what real love is,” said Thranduil to his sleeping prince and he went quietly from the tent.

Soon after that, Thorin asked to be helped from his bed and found he was strong enough to walk. He leaned on Thranduil as he hobbled around the camp and all his companions came running up to greet him, joy written on their faces.

“Do you think you’re well enough to come back to Erebor?” they asked. “You’ll feel more comfortable in your own bed.”

“I think I am,” smiled Thorin.

Thranduil helped him pack. “Thank you for all you have done,” said Thorin stiffly. And Balin and Dwalin came in then to say his horse was waiting and that they would help him mount and escort him home. Then, without a backward glance, he went from the tent, leaving Thranduil alone with his own thoughts.

.o00o.

It was two more weeks before the armies were ready to leave. And in that time, Thranduil didn’t see Thorin once. He was King under the Mountain now and had many duties, he supposed. Then, the day before he set out for Mirkwood, Bilbo popped his head around his tent flap. “I’ll be leaving soon for the Shire,” he said. “I shall miss Erebor and Thorin and all the dwarves…….which reminds me,” he added. “Thorin has invited you to a goodbye dinner tonight. Something about owing you some songs.” And he grinned.

Thranduil was torn between joy and despair: joy in seeing Thorin once more and despair that this might be the last time. He presented himself promptly at the palace that evening, expecting a formal dinner; but, instead, the servant showed him up to Thorin’s private rooms. They looked the same as they had done all those years ago and Thorin greeted him on the threshold with a smile. Retainers served up food and wine and Thorin was the perfect, charming host. He looked fully recovered but the elf didn’t doubt that his body was still badly scarred. He was wearing his favourite blue silk again and, as on that first night, his arms were bare but encircled with silver rings and the deep V of his neck showed just a shadowing of dark hair.

It was torture for the elf, but he had given up all hope of Thorin’s love weeks ago.

Then the dwarf brought out his harp and sang some beautiful, deep-throated dwarven songs. And Thranduil closed his eyes in despair. “Those are to repay you for the songs you sang me,” he said softly. And, now that the servants had been dismissed, he got up to pour Thranduil a glass of wine; and, as he passed the glass, their fingers touched and his fingers seemed to linger on those of the elven king.

Then when he had sat once more, he lifted his own glass and gazed steadily at the elf over the rim. “Do you like our dwarven wine?” he asked huskily. And when Thranduil said yes, that indeed he did, he stretched out a hand and lightly touched his thigh and murmured: “I thought you would.”

The elf lord felt confused and, looking down at the hand upon his leg, suddenly blurted out, “Are you trying to seduce me?”

Thorin removed his hand with a sigh. “Am I so obvious?” he asked with a wry smile. 

“But why do you feel the need?” the king asked in amazement.

“Because your love for me, just like your love for your wife, appears to have been a mixture of infatuation and thwarted desire. And, now, it no longer exists.”

“No longer exists?” asked the elven king. “Why do you say that?”

“Because for weeks you were alone with me and touched every part of my body – and yet you were not stirred to kiss me once.”

“But – but you were ill and I owed you a duty of care. Anything more would have been inappropriate.”

“How I longed for you to be inappropriate,” said Thorin with a sad smile. “I loved your hands upon me – so gentle and so cool and tender. When you touched me, I felt safe and loved. But, loved perhaps as a father loves a child.” And then he looked up at Thranduil from under long, dark lashes. “Have I lost you?” he said. “Is there no hope?”

Then Thranduil stood and taking Thorin by the hands, he raised him to his feet and, pulling him to him, he kissed him long and deeply. “I thought I had lost _you_ ,” he said. “I was the one who had no hope. I have never stopped loving you but it was Bilbo who showed me that love is about giving and not taking.”

“Then it is my turn to give,” said Thorin. And he gestured to the bed in the adjoining room.

.o00o.

It was a night of gentle passion as they got to know each other’s bodies. At first, Thranduil was hesitant, afraid that he would disgust Thorin once more with the strength of his desires. But Thorin cupped the elf’s face in his strong hands and whispered: “Touch me as a lover and not as a nurse. I would know what it is to be loved by you.” And so, the elven king touched him as a lover and traced Thorin’s scars with a delicate finger and with his lips. The dwarf moaned; and they were not moans of pain. Each time they discovered something that gave the other pleasure it was a source of great wonder and joy. They fell asleep in each other’s arms just before the dawn came in and were finally awoken by a servant creeping around to light a fire in the other room.

Thranduil rested on Thorin’s chest as he had longed to do at their first meeting and the dwarf stroked his golden hair. “We must lay plans,” said the dwarven king, “for though I would not willingly part with you, we both have duties in our own kingdoms.” And Thranduil listened to his beautiful voice vibrating through his chest. 

And they planned their days as best they could so that their lives would be spent as much as possible together. 

But Thranduil already felt a piercing melancholy.

For it is written that the days of elves are many and the lives of men and dwarves are as fleeting as a dream.

.o00o.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, did you enjoy my first attempt at slash? I hope so because it gives me pleasure to know that I have given people pleasure. 
> 
> Thank you very much for taking the time to read these three chapters.
> 
> I have just put up King of the Marble Halls - a new story that follows on from this one.


End file.
